


Portland Vigilantes

by WerewolvesAreReal



Category: Leverage
Genre: Gen, No actual superheroes involved, Post-Canon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-05-13
Updated: 2018-05-13
Packaged: 2019-05-06 00:02:34
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,825
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14629803
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WerewolvesAreReal/pseuds/WerewolvesAreReal
Summary: Hardison only wanted to remake kevlar, basically. He didn't intend for things to get so out of hand.(Not that he has any regrets)





	Portland Vigilantes

On Friday they successfully steal 4 million dollars and two very lucrative patents from a manufacturing company, then frame the corrupt CEO when he tries to make an insurance claim.

(They keep 2 million, because, well – it's not like it's going to hurt the case, is it?)

On Saturday, Hardison walks into the apartments over the brewery and finds Eliot on the floor, surrounded by two potholders, silverware, and a splattering of soup that has spilled from a large pot. “What the hell, man,” says Hardison, and Eliot shoots him a look that is impressively threatening, considering he's clutching his side and gasping for breath.

Hardison helps Eliot over to the couch. It's hardly the first time their hitter has needed someone to lean-on, but he can't remember any significant fights yesterday, nor a time that Eliot ever looked quite so winded from a simple fall.

“You need a hospital?”

“No,” Eliot snaps, then huffs again, bending over the arm of the couch with a muttered curse. “...s'fine. Just got shot.”

“Shot?!”

“Only a graze,” Eliot adds, which in no way helps calm Hardison.

Parker suddenly appears by his side; one day that's going to stop making Hardison jump. “Was it Jennie? I thought it was weird she started carrying a gun.”

“No,” says Eliot, and Hardison says, “Our waiter is carrying _what_ now?”

Eliot shoots him that look, his _I-can't-believe-your-dumb-ass-is-alive_ look, and adds, “One of the security guards nicked me yesterday, it's nothing. And she's got a 357 Magnum, man, it ain't exactly subtle.”

Ignoring that: “You should _not_ be so casual about getting shot.”

“It ain't like it's new.”

Hardison jabs a finger at him. “That's the problem! Right there! Shouldn't you at least have, like, armor or something?”

Eliot rolls his eyes hard. “This ain't one of your Atari games.” Hardison mouths _'Atari'_ with a scandalized expression. “People don't wear _armor._ Kevlar, maybe, but it would look too bulky under most of the stuff we for on cons.”

Hardison narrows his eyes. “There's got to be something, man.”

“If there was, don't you think I'd have it?” Parker pokes him in the side, and Eliot flinches away. “Goddammit – I'll be fine, if you two let me get some freaking sleep.”

So they do, and he _is_ fine, but Hardison keeps turning the conversation over and over in his mind.

He's never reacted well to being told something is impossible.

* * *

 

 _Graphene_ is a very, very thin material with roughly 10 times the hardness of kevlar, and a far greater dispersal of impact; meaning, someone hit with a bullet over graphene might only have a very small bruise, if that. The problem with it is that a dual layer of graphene _will_ stop a bullet... and then it will crack, becoming dangerous both in its vulnerability and because individual graphene molecules _may or may not_ cause asbestos-like effects. And radiation damage. And cancer...

There are a few kinks to be worked out, is all Hardison is saying. But he's a genius, after all, and more than that, he has some damn good motivation. He filches studies from online, hacks onto a few military servers, and squares off a section of the brewery to create and harvest the stuff. (Even the pub workers are accustomed to his oddities by now, and no one questions this).Within a few weeks he feels ready to start tests, and within another week he approaches Eliot when he and Parker are arguing in the living room (something about a suspicious theft from Eliot's favorite bakery; Parker claims that if the bakery _really_ doesn't want anything stolen, they at least need to upgrade to lasers).

Hardison interrupts with his question, and they both stop.

“You want to _shoot me?”_ Eliot demands.

“...For science?” At Eliot's face, he backtracks: “I made you some body-armor, man. I've tested it on dummies already. Should be thin enough to hide under clothes, easy.”

That actually seems to intrigue Eliot. Parker brightens. “Oh! Can I shoot him?”

“No,” says Eliot flatly. “And you ain't shooting me either, Hardison. I've _seen_ you with a gun, you'd aim for the foot and blast my skull off.”

...Which, yeah. That's probably fair.

“You really think it will work?”

“Are you doubting me? When has my stuff _not_ worked, is a better question.”

“Well, there was that time Chaos - “

“Rhetorical question! Rhetorical question, jeesh. Anyway.” Hardison reaches into his bag and pulls out a thin sheet of the material; Parker snatches it immediately, holding it up to the light. It's flexible and almost translucent. “That's about twenty layers, bonded over spandex every two layers – if you have it much thicker it doesn't stop bullets, and I'm still trying to figure out why. I'll still have to repair it pretty often, but it should work.”

Eliot mutters _spandex_ in a disgusted tone. He wanted subtle, didn't he? “You going to be wearing this too?”

“What?”

Eliot rolls his eyes. “If this stuff really _is_ that good, Hardison, you and Parker better be wearing it too. “

“ - Oh. Yeah. Good point.”

As it turns out, Eliot has several _very sharp_ knives hidden around the room. Also, a dart-gun. Also, a grenade launcher, which they are _not_ testing. “What, but guns are overkill?” Hardison asks when he detours downstairs to borrow Maggie's 357 Magnum.

Eliot doesn't bother answering this. Instead he has Parker hold up the fabric he'd brought – she does this while hanging upside-down from a ceiling rail, waving it like a matador's flag – and fires three times. The bullets hit the fabric and ping harmlessly to the floor.

“Huh,” says Eliot, inspecting the sample. “It works.”

“You don't gotta sound so surprised,” Hardison says. “ - Also, if you want to test it some more, we should probably go somewhere else. My phone tells me the police were just alerted to gun fire at this location, so...”

“I know a good shooting range.“

“Nah, man. I got a place. Let's go.”

* * *

 

“You got a cave,” says Eliot. “Under Portland. What, you missed the one in Boston?”

“Maybe,” says Hardison. Yes.

Behind him Parker spins in circles, head tilted back to stare at the uneven cave ceiling. “I'm going to install rafters,” she decides. “And ropes!”

At least _someone_ appreciates Hardison's schemes; he always knew the cave would come in handy. As Eliot side-eyes the computer array braced beneath six wide monitors – and a string of Christmas lights, because why not - Hardison rifles around and retrieves the demo suit. “I made a few versions,” he says. “One that's basically a body-suit, leaving out the hands, feet, and neck; one that's basically just a sleeveless shirt; and _this_ baby.”

“What the hell,” says Eliot, staring at it. “I can't wear that, man.”

“Sure you can.”

Eliot gives him a stink-eye. “People tend to stare when you're wearing a _black mask,_ Hardison.”

The last version of the suit is also a full-body version, and has a narrow slit under the nose for better breathing, as a precaution; the mask can also unhook from the front and hide seamlessly against the thin material. Absolutely everything is covered. “Sometimes you end up going places and _not_ trying to be subtle,” Hardison reasons. “We've staged robberies before, and I'd feel a lot better about that if there weren't a chance of someone getting accidentally shot.”

Eliot grumbles, but he can't seem to find an issue with this logic. “It still looks stupid,” he says instead.

He puts it on anyway.

“What did I say,” asks Hardison, gleeful. “ _What did I say,_ yeah, I am _amazing_.”

The black suit looks _rad,_ okay. He is justifiably proud.

As Eliot stretches and tests the suit's flexibility, Parker suddenly returns to the ground. “So what would happen if I tazered him like this?” she asks.

“...Uh, well. Actually, the suit's kind of a superconductor?”

 _“Goddammit,_ Hardison.”

Everyone's a critic.

* * *

 

After a full battery of tests that makes even Hardison sick of looking at his creation, Eliot wears the suit – the full-body suit, mask and all – on a run around the city. At midnight. In Hardison's opinion the man is just _begging_ for the cops to come calling, but Eliot says he wants to see how well it hides him in the dark. Not Hardison's idea of a fun Friday, but, to each their own.

So he's left installing ceiling-beams in the cave with Parker for a few hours until, suddenly, his phone rings.

He answers one-handed while watching Parker crawl up the wall, fingers and toes finding impossibly small crevices. She wedges her leg inside a crack and hangs upside-down while drilling into the wall.

All the people Hardison loves are _absolutely insane._

“What's up,” he answers, cringing reflexively as Parker starts sliding down, down, and _down_ toward the ground. Safety precautions, is he the only one who cares about safety precautions?

“Hey,” says Eliot. “I need you to hack into the weather station and switch off the power. Then send the police down here.”

“What? Man, I thought you were on a _jog.”_

“I was,” Eliot says. “They have hostages. Hurry up.”

Crashes resound through the cave as Parker starts rifling through his tools. Hardison rolls his eyes and moves toward his computers. “Can't have one quiet night,” he mutters, dialing. He calls the police and rapidly hacks into the weather station which really needs better security. Maybe he'll email them some tips later.

He turns on the cave's police-radio afterward – it was one of the first things he brought in. Then he opens his computer and brings up a display of the current police-reports, because every good hacker has a backdoor into the local police precinct.

Investigation shows incoming reports – five gunmen, and 7 hostages, including the station staff and two guests

And now they're reporting sounds of a struggle – the power has gone out -

It takes them three minutes to decide to move in. Hardison silently laments the slowness of the law, and he's utterly unsurprised when the next report comes through: the hostages saw a single man in a black suit, unarmed, taking down the thugs.

Hardison closes the laptop and wheels back around to watch Parker climbing around the ceiling. Only five guys. No big deal.

* * *

 

Eliot comes back to the cave and Hardison berates him for dirtying the suit. “I tested it, didn't I?” Eliot snaps.

No appreciation, seriously.

Eliot limps over to one of the chairs by the computer display, throwing himself down and grumbling. Hardison eyes him. Seems okay – just a bit bruised. He makes a mental note to invest in a couch. Maybe one of those fainting couches they always have on TV. He snickers for a minute over the mental image of Eliot swooning against a gaudy pink recliner, one hand held dramatically to his head like some damsel from those old Westerns Nana likes.

“What's so funny?” Eliot grumbles.

“Memes,” he answers immediately. It earns him an exasperated glower. “So, how did the suit hold up?”

“Not bad,” Eliot says. “ - Helps avoid grips, too. One of those guys tried to get ahold of me, his hands slipped.”

“Huh.” Hardison hadn't thought of that. Even his accidents are genius; he takes a second to preen.

“And it definitely cushioned some of the hits. Didn't get shot, though.”

“Yeah, the suit is not permission to be shot,” Hardison says. “Let's still avoid that – girl, what - “

Parker drapes herself over the back of his chair, causing it to tilt and almost topple them both. Her balance is too good for that, though. “Eliot's on TV!” she declares, waggling one of the monitor remotes.

Eliot curses as Hardison flips through the channels.

“ - Mysterious masked man,” the news-reporter is saying. “Police are trying to call him a random 'Good Samaritan', but passerby don't usually wear bodysuits, do they, Chris?”

“No,” her co-host agrees. “This looks more like vigilante justice to me. We have some footage of our mystery hero taking out the gunmen - “

Clip to video. Hardison always loves watching Eliot casually kicking ass, and it makes him weirdly pleased to see his own suit on the screen. He even sees the moment Eliot mentioned, when some goon tries to grab his arm and slips.

“One of the hostages says she wants to thank him,” says the woman once this video ends. “Do you think we'll find out who this man is?”

“If he is a vigilante, maybe we'll see him again,” says Chris easily. “Anyone with news on this masked man is asked to call the number below...”

“Nice, man,” says Hardison. He looks over.

Eliot's face is _disturbingly_ thoughtful.

But it isn't until Parker says, “Hey, are we helping Eliot beat up the bad guys now?” that Hardison realizes what they could do here.

“Oh, _hell yes.”_ He pumps his fist through the air. “Eliot's a superhero!”

“No I ain't,” says Eliot belatedly. “ _Vigilante._ They said so. _”_

“And we're his support team,” Hardison tells Parker.

“Do support teams get extra tasers?”

“Absolutely.”

Eliot tries to argue again that _superheroes aren't real, dammit._ But he doesn't actually protest.

That's how Hardison knows their nights in Portland are going to get a lot more interesting.

* * *

 

Leverage (International!) tends to be pretty busy. These days the team occasionally contracts jobs, delegating task to old friends who've volunteered to join them – Tara, Quinn, Craig Mattingly. But the big jobs – including work against names from the Black Book - they keep for themselves.

One of those names, incidentally, is making a stop in Portland before flying to his California mansion.

His name is Taylor Brizkie, and for the past twenty years, since he was only a junior nuisance of a bureaucrat bribing his way through college and medical-school with daddy's money, Taylor has been bribing desperate people to take part in his 'medical trials'. Full of falsified data, some of his attempts at drug-creation have led to multi-million dollar contracts with pharmaceutical companies. Alternatively, it has also led to series of unpleasant, often painful deaths and damages during the less-successful trials; organ failure, permanent eye damage, nerve damage, heart attack -

“I want to punch him,” Eliot decides after the briefing.

(They do briefings in the cave, now. Parker decreed it and it is so. Also, Hardison has some faint idea that the police are starting to get suspicious of the brewpub).

“I can work that into the plan,” Parker says.

“Good.”

“Before you get all punchy on Brizkie,” Hardison says, “Y'all might want to know that he's financing some drug trials _right here in Portland.”_ Hardison pulls up another screen. “One of the volunteers is Mr. Nanches! You remember him Eliot, yeah? Had that long talk about chile spices, or – something. Anyway, they're taking experimental drugs to combat MS, and four people have been hospitalized already.”

They both look to Parker.

She has that odd, tiny smirk she gets when she's thinking of something particularly amusing – which, to people who are not Parker, tends to also be terrifying.

“We need to get proof that he knows what's happening,” she says slowly. “Not just that he's paying for the trials, but that he _knows_ what they're doing.” She grins, raising one hand to point at the ceiling with authority (she must have taken more acting classes from Sophie). “We're going to steal a life!”

“...I hope you mean that metaphorically,” says Hardison.

“Nah, I'm listening,” says Eliot.

* * *

 

The job starts with poison.

“I love it when we poison people,” Hardison blurts. Whoops.

“We know,” Eliot says. “It makes you feel like a ninja.”

“...No it doesn't,” Hardison lies.

Over the earpiece Parker snorts, clearly disbelieving. Why are they ganging up on him, what is this.

They're sitting in Lucille 2.0, not far from Brizkie's hotel.

 _“He really shouldn't leave drinks lying around,”_ Parker interrupts. The distinct but quiet clinking of her harness-buckles comes clear over the coms. _“Who does that?”_

“Everyone who's not us,” Hardison offers. He sees Eliot grimacing out of the corner of his eye. Okay, Parker _probably_ shouldn't have spiked his homemade hot chocolate with Thief's Juice, but really, what did he expect after leaving it with her?

(Parker's been experimenting with recipes lately. Hardison would find it endearing if all the results weren't inedible.

It's still kind of endearing.)

Anyway. “You're sure this won't kill him, Eliot?”

Eliot looks a little ruffled at the suggestion. “I know what I'm doing,” he says. “I dosed a South American dictator with this stuff for a few months, had him convinced he was _possessed_ by the end of it.”

Hardison squints. “I thought this would just make Brizkie's limbs a bit numb? Does it cause hallucinations too?”

“Nah. The delusions were all him, but the numbness helped.”

“Huh.”

 _“Done,”_ Parker announces.

“Nice. Okay, can you - “

“Hardison,” Eliot interrupts. He points to one of the camera-views on Hardison's screen. “Those look like... ex-FBI.”

“The shoes?”

Eliot gives him a disgusted look. “One of them has an FBI bag. It literally says 'FBI', man.”

“...Oh.” Hardison looks again. “Ooooh. Uh, Parker, it looks like they're coming your way?”

 _“He can't be onto us!”_ Parker protests. She sounds offended. _“You hacked all the cameras, didn't you?”_

“They're not there for you,” Eliot interrupts. “Someone else is trying to kill Brizkie.” He bolts suddenly through the van doors.

“...So uh, I guess Eliot's joining you?” Hardison says. “That's not going to ruin the con, nope. This is a mess.”

He takes a sip of orange soda, leaning back and watching through the hijacked cameras as Parker creeps through the building corridors. Stressful work, hacking.

The four once-FBI agents find her just as Eliot comes tearing up behind them, slamming into the rear guy like a battering ram.

“Hey,” observes Hardison. “You were wearing the suit?”

Eliot must have somehow shed his shirt on the way over, leaving him with an awkward ensemble – battered jeans and combat-shoes over the thin, enhanced spandex of the costume. He's pulled the hood up to cover his face. That will at least keep them anonymous, Hardison figures.

And Eliot had _mocked_ the mask.

Two minutes later the hallway has four unconscious bodies – only three of which Eliot put down. Parker saunters down the hall wielding a taser. _“I like the suit,”_ she says, as though in answer to Hardison.

Before he replies, Hardison notices something else. “Uh, guys? I think security noticed the noise.”

And probably the fact that their cameras were looping, whoops.

 _“You got a harness?”_ Eliot asks Parker.

 _“Duh,”_ she scoffs.

Hardison watches through the cameras as Eliot opens a window, and Parker unzips her jacket to reveal a black harness. Pulls out a grappling hook from god-knows-where. Eliot latches onto her and they jump out together, tethered to a table, just as shouting guards come up to see them.

“Oh, man,” Hardison says. “I'm saving that video.”

(He's not the only one.)

* * *

 

“They're calling me a _sidekick!”_ Parker says.

She sounds excited, though it's hard to be sure. “Who is?” Hardison asks.

“The tv people.” Parker pauses. “And the newspapers. And the people who reply to Amy's blog.”

“Why do you follow - “

“She likes to talk about her weird boss,” Parker clarifies. Great.

Across the cave Eliot ignores them in favor of cleaning a katana. Why does he have a katana? Who knows.

It's easy to find that Parker is right – apparently some guy in the street was snapping pictures and managed to get shaky footage of Eliot and Parker rappelling from the building. Eliot's in the suit and Parker has her face turned toward him, so Hardison figures it's okay.

But, this does present an important opportunity.

Hardison spins around (the swirly cave-chairs were an excellent investment). “We need names,” he says.

Eliot stops his work specifically to roll his eyes at Hardison.

“We have names,” says Parker. “Or am I Alice now?”

“No, no, not con-names. _Code names,_ secret hero names.” He points a finger at Parker. “You can be... uh......Acrobat?”

Parker squints.

“No,” says Eliot.

“Come on, man, it's a good name!”

“I'll be Parker,” she decides.

“No, no, a _code name._ Something that, like, describes what you do.”

“Oh. Then I'm Thief,” says Parker.

“That's what you _are,_ it ain't a name.”

Parker frowns. In fairness, Hardison realizes, he's talking to someone who only _has_ one name. “...You can be Thief if you want,” he concedes.

She brightens. “Okay. What's your new name?”

“Uh, I'm Oracle,” says Hardison. “Obviously.”

Eliot snorts. “What, you can tell the future now?”

“No, man, but Oracle is _always_ the name for characters who do the tech and radio stuff. You got an Oracle in the Batman comics, Flash, even that new Spider-man - “

“Don't see why we need names. This ain't the army.”

“The – does that mean you had a code-name in the army? What was your name.”

“That's... not the point.”

“Man, come on, you can't just say that and not explain, don't leave me hanging...“

* * *

 

Eliot's call-name in the army was _Badger._ Because he was short and ferocious and killed everything.

Hardison finds this _adorable._

Eliot, unfortunately, shoots down the idea of a 'badger signal' and threatens to destroy his computer array if he gives the suit furry ears. No sense of humor, that man.

Instead, they eventually give him the name -

“Punchy,” says Hardison.

“No,” says Eliot.

“I even made the cartoon,” Hardison reminds him, referring back to the - perfectly successful - con he ran where the team had codenames.

Eliot liked that cartoon, he ain't fooling no one.

“...No,” says Eliot again, but uncertainly. He clears his throat, tries again: “No codenames, man.”

The police promptly start calling Eliot 'Punchy'. Probably because it was suddenly the name in all their computer files and reports, and they just started to go along with it. Wow, how did that happen, Hardison sure wouldn't know.

(Eliot makes tofu and vegetable dishes for the next week, staring at Hardison with his craziest murder-eyes during each meal until he chokes them down.

Which is probably fair.)

________________________________

The mark is clearly feeling off over the next few days; he cancels a few events and finally, as they had hoped, schedules a doctor's appointment with a local 'specialist' who researches nerve-damage and numbness. It helps that his calls to other physicians have mysteriously led to dial-tones and, in one case, a sex hotline.

 _“Why do I always gotta be the doctor,”_ Eliot complains.

“Because you're best with the human body,” says Hardison automatically. Stops. Rethinks that sentence. “I mean, better in the, uh anatomical, knowledge, kinda sense – stop smirking, I know you're smirking.”

Hardison's on standby to research any on-the-spot medical questions Brizkie might have, and Parker is reading on a bench outside the borrowed clinic just in case they need a distraction. Everything according to plan.

Brizkie explains his complaints very factually, only betraying slight nervousness; he's even polite. A normal doctor, Hardison reflects, would never know that this man is a negligent psychopath.

 _“That... doesn't sound good,”_ says Eliot when the guy finishes. His voice has an ominous slowness. _“We're going to need to run a few reflex tests.”_

For the next few minutes Hardison snickers through the yelps and smothered sounds over the coms. Eliot had packed a few needles, a hammer, rubber-bands, and – for whatever reason – a miniature torch before he left. Hardison tries to imagine how they're being used in this 'testing'.

Finally Eliot comes to a conclusion, voice grave. _“Well, we'd have to get a lumbar puncture and some blood tests to be sure, but I think you should get an MRI, Mr. Brizkie. I think I know what this is.”_

 _“So I'm sick?”_ Brizkie asks.

_“Just come with me, Sir.”_

Faking the MRI results is fun on Hardison's part, although he thinks Eliot takes too much amusement out of needlessly stripping the guy before he goes in the machine. Yeah, it probably makes him feel more scared and some other psycho-nonsense Sophie would have cared about, but come on. Some things you just don't do.

 _“This scan looks like a damn rainbow,”_ Eliot mutters. _“Is that even a human skull, Hardison?”_

 _“Sorry?”_ asks Brizkie.

 _“What I said,”_ says Eliot, louder, _“Is that I have some bad news. I'm sorry to tell you this, Mr. Brizkie, but it looks like you have Multiple Schlerosis.”_

 _“Is it lethal?”_ asks Brizkie, terrified.

“Actually it generally ain't,” provides Hardison. “Common misconception, with modern medicine people can actually live pretty - “

 _“It is,”_ says Eliot. _“Very lethal. You barely feel the symptoms at all, then one day - “_ he smacks his hands together.

 _“How can I get rid of it?”_ Brizkie demands.

 _“You can't... Though, I heard there's some sort of trial in the city for MS patients. Some attempt at a miracle drug, I don't know. But the waiting list is too long.”_ Eliot makes an indecisive noise. _“Well, we can at least make you suffer less. I can put you on a drug regimen and - “_

 _“...Actually,”_ interrupts Brizkie, _“I think I'm okay.”_

 _“I'm afraid it's always lethal,”_ lies Eliot again.

But Brizkie makes his excuses and leaves. Hardison snickers. Nothing gets to rich people more than the threat of tearing them from the world – and their money – early.

Eliot waits in the clinic a few more minutes before clearing out. Hardison meets them back at the brewpub, where Eliot tears off his doctor's coat with unwarranted aggression. Parker has acquired a lollipop from somewhere; Hardison hopes they don't need another talk about stealing candy from children.

“Can't believe a guy can make so much money from medicine, and not know _anything_ about medicine,” Eliot grumbles. “I'd expect him to get a second opinion, at least. What the hell.”

“You know, I almost feel bad about this job,” Hardison reflects. 'Almost' is the key word here. “I mean, he seemed pretty freaked.”

Parker looks at him sympathetically, like she's lamenting his morals.

“You'll feel better when he's in jail,” Eliot dismisses. “Ain't Nate and Sophie supposed to check in soon?”

“Oh, right.”

They sprawl out in the brewpub's meeting-room while they wait. At 8 o'clock the call comes, and after a moment's fiddling Sophie and Nate appear on the screen.

They seem to be somewhere tropical; Sophie has donned a scanty silk dress and Nate is wearing a priest's habit.

“Isn't that a sin?” asks Hardison.

Nate mutters something about seminary school. Sophie beams. “I think it makes him feel nostalgic,” she confides, and Nate scowls at her.

They talk about their latest few cons – Parker preens a bit when Nate congratulates her use of the pigeon drop in a recent job - and Sophie makes a few vague allusions to whatever they've been doing on their 'honeymoon'. Hardison's been keeping track of them and he strongly suspects that they're responsible for a sunk cruise-liner in the Pacific – no casualties! - though he would love to know how the Sheikh of Dubai is involved in that.

“ _And_ we're selling more beer than ever,” Hardison adds as the conversation tapers down. “I _told_ ya'll me and Parker could do the brewing.” He holds up a fist without looking, and Parker bumps it.

“Of course you can,” says Sophie, using her bad-acting voice. And just when Hardison thinks they're off the hook, that the call is about to end and everything will be dandy, she asks casually, “By the way – have you three heard about this vigilante running around Portland?”

“...Nope,” says Hardison. “We're, uh, wow, it looks like we're having technical difficulties - “

“Hardison,” sighs Nate.

“Got to go!” he says, and in a panic cuts the power. Eliot and Parker stare at him, unimpressed. “What!” he asks. “Like any of y'all wanted that conversation to happen?”

* * *

 

Eliot 'tests' the suit four more times over the next five days. “It's good training,” he says, and adds “I don't get to punch enough people in this job,” as though they hadn't pissed off the Russian mob just last month.

Hardison tries to imagine Eliot as an old man, his hitter days far behind. He'll probably get a cane just to smack people with, Hardison figures.

Brizkie is inspecting the MS trials on Tuesday, eager to find out if they've been successful – and eager to snag a sample for himself. It's easy to get reporters there for some fluff-piece, inspiration-porn thing where they're supposed to interview one of the 'test subjects' and family - including Parker. Hardison stays behind to redirect the police notifications and watch the cameras, but Eliot hovers around the test site.

Hardison leans back with a bag of popcorn after Parker's excellent, tear-jerking performance as the sister of one of the deceased subjects. The three reporters with her go wild when Brizkie enters just a minute after, bombarding the confused man with questions.

Popping a few kernels in his mouth, he scrolls through his email and sends an anonymous tip to Detective Bannano. The short note suggests that Brizkie is definitely selling drugs... or something... and the department should definitely get a warrant to check his house. Especially his paperwork. All the paperwork. Including the open, note-covered file on the MS clinic and their covered-up losses.

Parker had a lot of fun feigning Brizkie's handwriting for that.

Hardison sets an alert on his computer so he'll know when Brizkie is arrested, then prepares to sit back and maybe open this new game he...

 _“We've got a problem,”_ says Eliot.

“No we don't,” Hardison denies, automatic. “Nuh-uh, nope, done, we are _done,_ a nice easy little job - “

 _“Parker,”_ Eliot says. _“Are you safe?”_

Well that doesn't sound good.

Hardison lurches in his seat, rapidly searching through the city cameras on his laptop. He finds a view that shows the exterior of the test building; there are for police cars there and a SWAT van.

Hardison _hates_ it when SWAT shows up.

“Come on, man, what's happening?” he asks.

 _“Guy realized something was going down,”_ says Eliot tersely. There are rustling sounds over the com as he continues, _“He's crazier than we thought. Took two hostages and he's demanding a cure and a getaway.”_

“There is no cure!! His drug kills people!”

_“Yeah, so it's kinda hard to meet his demands. Parker, answer me.”_

_“I'm okay,”_ she mutters. She doesn't sound happy about it. _“ - I'm in one of the vents. He's facing my wall, I can't taze him.”_

_“How'd he get tipped off?”_

Hardison frowns, typing. “Dunno yet, but I'll find out.”

Silence. _“Right. I'll take care of it.”_

“Take care of...? Eliot. Eliot, man, come on, this is actually a situation where the police can handle this, we don't gotta - “

Crashes, a muffled shout. _“Ouch,”_ Parker mutters. Metallic clicking sounds.

“Police should be there... now,” says Hardison. “So _get out_ already.”

“Yeah, yeah,” Parker dismisses.

Hardison is still monitoring all the outside cameras, which is the only reason he sees a black-garbed woman swing from the building on a rappeling-gun, Eliot's own suited form clinging to her side. Two police officers gawk at them from the ground and immediately start shouting into their headsets.

Hardison leans back in his chair, then glances around the cave, back at his workstation. Huh. Apparently Parker found her suit.

* * *

 

 

 

 

_**VIGILANTE SIDEKICK CONFIRMED** _

 

Hardison sulks over the _Portland Times._ Sure, Parker gets to be a sidekick. No one ever notices the lab geeks, and that's where the real magic happens.

“Stop,” says Eliot across the room.

“I ain't doing anything!'

“You're thinking about ways to make an Iron Man suit and fight crime,” says Parker from above their heads. Hardison installed a completely redundant set of ducts in the ceiling, and she seems to be enjoying it – though she keeps poking out of the false bottoms to throw golf-balls at him.

Hardison knows the set-up could be useful if the cave is infiltrated, but right now he has Regrets.

“I could fight crime,” says Hardison. Eliot gives him a skeptical look, which is frankly offensive. “What? That's basically what we do already, man, we do the vigilante thing all the time – it's just no one knows about us.”

“We _stop_ crime,” Eliot corrects. “ _I_ fight crime. Last month one of our targets bled on you and you almost fainted.”

Hardison grumbles to himself (blood is dangerous! blood can be diseased!) but Eliot ignores him in favor of accepting an incoming call. Raising a cell-phone, his brow scrunches.

“Stop that,” snaps Eliot. “Wait – how did you - “

Eliot moves his phone away and glares at it.

“What?”

“That was Quinn,” says Eliot, disgruntled. “ - Called just to laugh. Apparently the video of me and Parker has gone 'viral', and there's a mention in the New York Times. You're supposed to stop this shit, Hardison!”

“I can't do _everything,_ man, and you were caught on camera – it's gonna get out.” But he obligingly turns to his computer anyway.

On Friday Eliot accidentally takes out a mob-boss on one of his 'runs', and Hardison gives up on discretion. He names one of the brew-pub beers after Punchy Man and calls it a day.

* * *

 

Nate and Sophie skype them in the cave two weeks later, staring with disapproval through Hardison's six high-depth monitor screens. This time the background of the call looks vaguely Japanese, and Sophie is wearing a kimono. Nate, more bizarrely, is in an old-timey brown suit and a false mustache.

“Anything you want to tell us _,”_ asks Nate pointedly, holding up his phone. On it Eliot's suited profile is kicking the head of a mugger. The false 'stache quivers with Nate's look of disappointment.

Eliot, by Hardison's side, only crosses his arms and glowers. Hardison raises his hands. “Look, I swear it all made sense at the time - “

Sophie interrupts. “ _Please_ tell me I can redesign the suit.” She clasps her hands, looking the perfect picture of a pleading model. “I've always thought that _appearance_ is a big part of vigilantism, and quite frankly, Hardison, I'm disappointed.”

“Eliot looks badass! I did fine on that suit,” he says, affronted.

“But I could do _better._ ”

This is probably true. He rests his chin in his palm and they both ignore Nate sputtering in the background.

“Okay,” Hardison decides. “You two swinging by Portland soon, or...?”

“Oh, dear, we wouldn't miss this for the _world.”_

In the background, Nate throws up his hands and walks off-screen. Fair enough. But it looks like the team is getting back together - he _knew_ the Eliot-suit was a good idea.

People should really listen to him more, Hardison thinks.

Suddenly Parker flounces into the cave, grinning madly. More madly than normal, anyway. “Eliot's on the news again!” she declares.

This isn't exactly strange, lately, but Hardison obligingly picks up his remote. The display screens splits so Sophie and Nate are only on the left half. A news-caster is speaking against a backdrop of... black, human-shaped balloons?

“The city council has announced Punchy-man day,” she declares. “In honor of Portland's own vigilante, who - “

“ _Dammit,_ Hardison,” Eliot snarls. But Hardison only grins.

God, he loves this city.

 


End file.
